


Between The World's Ribs

by runwithneedles



Category: Beowulf (Poem)
Genre: Beowulf - Freeform, Drabble, Gen, Original Character - Freeform, Yuletide Madness, Yuletide Madness 2018, gen - Freeform, i feel like this when it's cozy and dark and snowy., idk - Freeform, like I can see the heart of the world., musings on winter peace?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:30:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runwithneedles/pseuds/runwithneedles
Summary: A human perspective on the night before Beowulf kills Grendel, a guard in the mead-hall falling asleep and dreaming of peace and safety.





	Between The World's Ribs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fresne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/gifts).



The beams reach up into the darkness like massive ribs, protecting them. The quiet in the hall is thick with breathing and the smell of mead and bodies, but it is not an unpleasant thickness. Not like the thickness of dread all these nights before, waiting for destruction, unable to hide and ill-matched for the fight. 

The great warrior is here, and his arrival has freshened the air, like opening a door to deep cold in the winter, a sharp and welcome change.

The guard is sleepy, relieved of his post, full of food and the heat of drink. He is not yet ready to slip from waking. It will be a heavy sleep: he can feel it pulling at his mind, but he resists, just for a little while. There is a feeling in his heart, a peace, an assurance, and he wants to taste it a few moments more. 

There is snow outside, uncounted motes drifting in the dark sky, piling agains the hall, lodging in every cranny of its carvings. The resulting peace is profound, and in it he feels as if he can sense the bones and beating heart of all the realms, a humming life-movement bound together and full of potential, belonging to them all, and yet fully belonging to itself. 

He is nearing sleep now, too weary to fight it anymore, but the hallucinatory impression remains, golden and warm and full of hope. His companion shifts next to him, and he lets him press against him in his sleep. Animal warmth and the thick furs over them combine to pull his senses into sleep, gentle blackness and rest. May the warrior’s power protect them both.


End file.
